Gatlocke hears the room's door slide open from his dreams, and that's all it takes for him to wake up.
He doesn't remember what he was dreaming of, he hardly ever does, but it's left him with a cold sweat over his skin, a tension in his chest, and a heavy weight in his gut. Not a good dream, for certain. But all of that dissipates as the mattress leans outward, supporting a second body.
Gatlocke rolls over lazily, letting his arms fall open, and letting Rex fall into them. The latter hasn't bothered shedding any of his clothing, so it's filth on flesh since Gatlocke had chosen to sleep tonight in the nude, but he sympathizes. This place, Providence, is not unlike any other shmuck-run corporation that Gatlocke's sneered at in the past; it likes working its operatives to the bone. The dirt and grime don't bother him, and this is still a far cry from the hygiene of his old life. At least now he has a shower to step into come morning.
"Welcome back" is the intended script he had ready; nothing fancy or witty or particularly meaningful, but it gets the message across, doesn't require too much thought, and he can slip back into a comatose slumber right after. It doesn't happen quite like that, though. The wetness on Rex is somewhat crusty, and warm to the point of being almost hot, and the scent that comes with it is unmistakable. So what comes out of Gatlocke's mouth instead is, "Are you bleeding?"
"It's okay," Rex murmurs, the sentence is huffed warmly to the side of Gatlocke's neck. "It's not mine."
Even as he says that, more of it is spilling around Gatlocke's waist, collecting where their combined weight makes the mattress dip. Rex's lack of movement does no better to ease any worry.
"Rex," but Gatlocke has nothing to say after that. Instead, he's propping himself partway up on one elbow, ignoring as the fluids follow the new grooves and slide around his skin, reaching his other hand towards the nightstand.
"It's his. Six's." Rex isn't really saying anything anymore, and Gatlocke isn't really listening. "Six got hurt. He--"
Gatlocke's fingers locate the light switch and flip it, and as light floods the room, a full slew of swear words automatically drop from his mouth. Blood, he had expected that. But not this. A fuckton of it. A fucking fuckton. Everywhere. A few handprints of it on the door, splatters of it trailing across the carpet and over the sheets, and finally pooling around them. It's all over Rex, and now it's all over Gatlocke too.
"S'okay," Rex is mumbling. "S'not mine."
And bollocks if Gatlocke doesn't lose his shit right then and there.
He rings Six (who doesn't answer), he rings Holiday (who does), he rings the main infirmary (because Holiday had instructed him to, along with staunch the bleeding and elevate the wound, except the wound is somewhere on Rex's torso so how the hell do you even elevate that, and more and more red just keeps blossoming through no matter how many times Gatlocke folds more clean parts of the...